Flash in the Pan (The Twilight Twenty-Five, Round Nine)
by harasnicole
Summary: Mission: to write twenty-five unrelated mini stories revolving around one central character of my choice in three months' time. Drabbles, flashes, and one-shots. Mostly flashes. Rated M just for safety.
1. hunger

**The Twilight Twenty-Five**  
><strong>thetwilight25 dot com<strong>  
><strong>Prompt:<strong> #13  
><strong>Main Character:<strong> Edward, unknown narrator  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 471

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><p>He seems to slither from building to building, remaining undetected by the general public.<p>

All skin and bones, emaciated, my heart breaks for the boy looking for his next meal. I watch him as he makes his way to the nearest dumpster, trying to avoid alerting the authorities who pace back and forth their station, looking out for the kind of people this boy represents.

I take in the rest of him: unruly hair, so dirty that I can't even tell what color it is; raggedy jeans, holes all up and down both legs; tattered t-shirt, bare feet, holey sneakers tied at the laces and hanging around his neck. I wonder why he doesn't just throw them away, but then think that maybe it is because his shoes are all he has left of whatever life he's lived before he's started living on the streets.

Looking around, I notice a police officer a few feet away, the only one whose back isn't turned towards the miscreant. He's standing in the center of the boardwalk, parallel to the railing, and I see the moment when he notices the obviously homeless boy scurrying past him and right to the dumpster, not even bothering to look twice before climbing up and in, scouring for something to eat.

"Hey!" the officer shouts, pulls out his nightstick and marches over to the dumpster, and for a minute, I'm scared that this officer is going to abuse his power by using that stick in his hand to hit this boy who looks to be around my age, if not a year or two older, and I'm stuck wondering what I should do, if anything.

There's rattling coming from inside the dumpster that I can hear all the way from here, and then silence. The officer makes it to the dumpster and peeks inside, but he must not see anything or anyone, and I guess, just to make sure, he takes his nightstick and starts banging on the side of the dumpster, attempting to draw out the trespasser.

I don't know when I started moving, but my feet, of their own accord, has taken me in their direction, and by the time I get there, the boy is standing up in the middle of the trash, covering his ears and begging the policeman to _stop, please stop_, and the officer does just that.

Before the officer can reprimand the boy and order him out, I hear a voice come from out of nowhere saying,

"He's with me, Officer."

Two pairs of eyes turn in my direction; disbelief in one, shock and fear in the other.

It takes awhile to understand what's going on…

...and then I realize that that person who spoke?

She was me.


	2. tryst

**The Twilight Twenty-Five**  
><strong>thetwilight25 dot com<strong>  
><strong>Prompt:<strong> #23  
><strong>Main Character:<strong> Edward/Tanya  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 433

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><p>They come together like moths to a flame.<p>

He hoists her body up against the wall, just past the front door, pins her there with his body. There's touching, intimate; hands that feel as if they're going everywhere and nowhere at once.

She shivers; he moans.

Names are whispered:

"Edward,"

"Tanya."

Her legs wrap around his waist, fall to his hips, and then he's there, helping her keep her balance. They're in a rush to get to the final stage, so clothes remain on, but pants are unzipped, a skirt is pushed upward, and panties are pushed to the side before he enters her in one long, seemingly endless stroke.

Their parents wouldn't approve of what they're doing. But at this point, neither one of them couldn't care less.

But there's always been something boiling down below the surface, waiting to break free, explode, make sense.

And this is the most sense that has ever been made.

He thrusts, and she tries to keep up, but there is only so much one can do when you're pinned against a wall. So, she settles for hair-pulling; first she runs her hands through it, and then when he hits a particular spot, she'll clench her hands and her thighs and her kegels, trying to keep him in when he's pulling out only to push back inside.

She feels a scream bubble up inside her throat, so she latches her mouth onto his, muffling his grunting.

Each time is better than the last, and this time feels better than the first. Both want this to last as long as possible. Or, at least, until they have to go back downstairs and mingle with the guests. Put their masks back on, and step into roles that they're not sure how to even begin to get out of.

They climb higher, reach the precipice of their desire, until there's no other option but to fly. She takes off first, with Edward following closely behind.

As they come back down to Earth, Edward slowly makes his way to sit on the carpet of his hotel room, Tanya firmly sitting on his lap, both holding onto the other until they have to part again.

Neither has felt like this before.

Though they try to put an end to it, they always find their way back, and so they've stopped trying.

When the strawberry blonde reveals to him about her condition, it's like a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped onto Edward's head, and he knows.

They can't keep sneaking around like this anymore.

Something's gotta give when baby makes three.


	3. covert

**The Twilight Twenty-Five**  
>thetwilight25 dot com<br>**Prompt:** #5  
><strong>Main Character:<strong> Edward  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 372

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><p><strong>definition: <strong>adj. concealed; secret; _disguised_.

* * *

><p>Sometimes one needs a mask to wear in order to play the part.<p>

For example, in my case, that mask is that of a boy trying his damnedest to be a man, to fit with the "cool kids" and to do that, sometimes I say the most asinine thing that can possibly come out of my mouth.

I'm the playboy, a Casanova, of sorts; the life of the party with his pick of any girl he could ever want. They're all willing, too. Thing is, I don't want any of them, but I play my part, and I play it well. Sometimes, I think I play too well, because I often forget that this isn't who I really am.

It's almost like an undercover cop who goes too deep and can't find his way to the surface. Like, he's been pretending to be one of the bad guys for so long that he _becomes _the bad guy. The longer he stays in, the harder it is for him to take off the mask.

The imposter becomes real; the real becomes the imposter.

Heels over head, I can't tell who is whom.

The guys are loud, boisterous. They're cat-calling any attractive female who happens to walk by, and though I hate this part, I join in on the ruckus, throwing my patented smirk that I inherited from my father at any girl's way, watching for a reaction that's to be expected.

I know I'm good-looking, but I never played with it until I moved here and met the gang. Now, getting by on my looks has become almost all of what I know.

So, when I aim a smile that is perhaps too arrogant, too cocky, at a brunette who, by society's standards, would be considered as bland and boring, I don't get the expected reaction from her as I do the others. Instead, she rolls her eyes and turns away as if I don't even matter.

Gotta admit, it stings a bit. Or a lot.

The way she's able to ignore me just makes me want to try harder.

Thing is, though, how does a boy disguised as man even begin to fight to the surface?

Even better question: who am I?


End file.
